Read Online Sweet Jesus by Christine Pountney - Free Book Online Page B

forward and held her by the elbows and looked at her the way a child might – an orphaned child, standing in line, waiting to be adopted. Then he hugged her, aggressively. Connie had to brace her arm against his chest to swing her mug out of the way. She put it down on the counter and Harlan got his arms around her. He was rubbing his hands all over her back, as if he could gather up everything that had gone astray.
    You’re messing up my –
    He held her tight – tight enough to sprocket her glasses at an odd angle off her face. A cold snap on the collar of his gore-tex jacket was nudging her lip up into a snarl. Ya smell good, he said.
    I had a shower, Connie said, pushing him away. Aw, Harl, I think you’ve bent my glasses again.
    Thass why I told you titanium.
    Connie put them down and opened and tucked and retied her bathrobe.
    Harlan snaked an arm around her waist and bent sideways to scoop the hem of her nightgown and slide a hand up her thigh.
    Your hands are freezing, she said.
    But your skin’s so warm.
    Let’s go to bed, she said, but Harlan ignored her. He was paying attention to the curve of her hip, the temptation of herslim waist. He reached up through the neck of her nightgown and held her jaw, then the back of her neck. He kissed her.
    Where’ve you been, Harl? What’s the matter with you? You stink of booze.
    Harlan turned his wife around and put his face into her hair.
    Come on, sweetheart, she said. It’s time for bed.
    But instead he pushed her forward, gently but firmly, over the sink. Connie had always loved how entitled her husband behaved when it came to sex – how confident he was. In everything else, Harlan had such doubt, but during sex he had authority. Connie could relax. She had no responsibilities, nothing to do. It was like faith – a kind of thrilling surrender. Only, recently, he’d gotten sloppier, a little morose, a little too needy. A bit of that old, familiar self-pity creeping in and sullying her pleasure. The pot-lights in the ceiling were giving off their ivory glow and the blinds were open. People can see us, Connie said, but Harlan had his ear to her shoulder blade. She reached sideways and flicked the lights off. The outside leapt up to press its nose against the glass. There was moonlight on the spruce needles that carpeted a patch of lawn beside the garage, where Connie could never get the grass to grow despite having hired a landscaper and spread three bags of blended fescue. She could see the back wheels of Harlan’s Jeep where they weren’t supposed to be.
    Where did you park?
    Harlan had her robe and nightgown gathered halfway up her back. Harl! she said, and his pants hit the floor.
    Quiet, wife, he said, his voice hardening. I’m ride here with you.
    Connie’s arms were in the sink, her hands splayed on the stainless steel by a drain that needed bleaching. Always elbow-deep in dishwater, she thought, and it wasn’t even her ownthought – somebody else had said it once – and her husband slid into her from behind.
    Connie rose onto the balls of her feet. It was a seesaw of want, don’t want. The vanishing in and out between self-consciousness and pleasure. Harlan had her nightclothes dragged over her head and she could feel his hot wet mouth on the back of her neck. It left a cool patch, like opening a tiny window, when he straightened up to come, the compulsion tightening him into an arc, like a metal ruler pulled back at the tip to flick and oh! the exquisite agony of succumbing. He collapsed forward, shuddering in waves, while Connie took his weight on her wrists, wedging her elbows against the edge of the sink. She felt a drop like warm wax on her back, then another, and understood that Harlan was crying.
    Harl, she said. Talk to me.
    Harlan fell to his knees.
    What’s the matter with you? Connie said, turning around and straightening her clothes.
    I don’t want to lose you. His face pressed tight against her thighs.
    Connie knew this was his